


in the deepest depths (i lost myself)

by enjolrasenthusiast



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim, Barricade Day, M/M, kind of at least im just posting the first chap today
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 11:17:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11103471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolrasenthusiast/pseuds/enjolrasenthusiast
Summary: Enjolras was all things that Grantaire was not; bright, beautiful, with a lust for adventure and justice that Grantaire could only glimpse through the haze of sleep, fingers clutching at the evasive feeling of euphoria that slipped through his fingers and disappeared along the spiderweb of the Drift. And yet - there he was, a hand stretched back to Grantaire amid the wreckage of memories, a voice in Grantaire’s head sayingstay with me follow me I am here.Grantaire took his hand, and together they fell.-Or, the Pacific Rim AU that no one asked for.





	in the deepest depths (i lost myself)

**Author's Note:**

> a pacific rim au for barricade day - this is the surprise i was talking about! i've had this idea brewing for a week or so now, and big things planned for both this and my versailles fic! unfortunately, updates will be coming a little slower than they did with my last fic; im working on both projects at once, and trying to focus on my original novel at the same time. i hope you like it though! title is from black water by of monsters and men

_ Cold. Cold cold cold dark. Cold cold dark dark dark - hands on his cheeks. A soft voice, a smile. The cold surface of green glass beneath his fingers. A crash, a shout. _

_ A voice - stay with me. _

_ Cold. Too cold, too dark. _

_ Spiderwebs tangled together behind his eyelids, a dark street and a flickering streetlamp. A red bicycle leaned up against a sagging picket fence. The scene shifts, a classroom, a supermarket, smoke curling through the mountain air. Sand between his toes. _

_ Stay with me, Grantaire. _

_ Dark dark cold, the coarse burn in his throat, the shaky exhale, a sip of water. The city lights spread out beneath him. In the distance, a siren, an alarm, she calls him back to the house. The ocean is in the distance, too far to make out the outlines of the boats. Not until she comes home, he says. _

_ Grantaire, don’t lose me. Don’t get lost, Grantaire. _

_ The slide of lukewarm wine down his parched throat. Black black black everywhere but it is not dark. Only cold. Cold and wet around his ears and his eyes and his hands and - _

 

Grantaire blinks away the harsh red light suddenly invading his senses, groaning as the simulator door hisses open. On his other side, Eponine is pulling her helmet off and wiping furiously at a spot of relay gel on her cheek. “Fucking  _ shit,” _ she hisses, and Grantaire flinches back. He knows her frustration, he does. Three weeks out of training and he and Eponine are the only two candidates skilled enough to become Rangers but too incompatible to successfully Drift with anyone. Grantaire’s been through the entire graduating class and half the newcomers; Eponine more than that - they both know that this simulation run was little more than a last-ditch attempt to find a compatible match. With a sigh, Grantaire pulls off his own helmet and scrubs away the relay gel, nudging open the door of the simulation pod with his foot.

To his left, Eponine does the same, climbing ungracefully out of the pod and fumbling for the zipper on her suit. Grantaire moves to help her, setting his helmet to the side and stepping around the back of the pod on legs sore from Combat Room compatibility tests.

“Do you think they’ll drop us?” he asks, biting the inside of his cheek the second the words leave his mouth - it’s a possibility they’re both aware of, but neither one has put it out into the open before. As nice as Fantine is, she has no use for pilots without drift-compatible partners, and this search for Grantaire’s match has been stretched far enough as it is.

“What other choice do they have?” sighs Eponine by way of reply, shrugging out of her drivesuit and pulling on the standard-issue sweatshirt she had taken off before their simulation. “They’re not going to wait around forever to pair us with someone, that’s a waste of resources-”

“And a waste of time,” says a voice behind the two of them, and Grantaire whirls on his heels to face Fantine.

“Marshal-” he starts, Eponine snapping to a swift attention at his side, but Fantine cuts him off with a wave of her hand.

“I’m not dropping you, Thenardier, you can relax.” Eponine does so, visibly, and Grantaire wonders if the relieved slump is as visible in his shoulders as it is in hers. “You’re being reassigned.”

“Reassigned - what, as trainers?  _ Assault specialists?” _

“Eponine, don’t-”

“No, Grantaire, I’m not being  _ demoted. _ Give me another candidate, Marshal,  _ anyone. _ I’ll wait for my brother to clear his training, please-”

“Relax, Thenardier,” Fantine says, her voice as calm and placid as ever. “No one is being demoted. I’m sending you and Grantaire to a different Shatterdome.”

Grantaire’s brain is stalling, dragging itself through molasses. He darts his gaze to the side and Eponine deflates, narrowing her eyes at Fantine. “My brother is here, I’m not leaving Gavroche.”

“Of course not.” Fantine smiles at them, finally, and the last of the tension leaves Grantaire. Fantine doesn’t do bad things when she’s smiling. She may be a Marshal, same as the rest, but she’s good to her Rangers - and almost-Rangers - when she can be. She doesn’t smile like this before bad news. “He’s going with you, to Marseille.”

Grantaire chokes.  _ “Marseille? _ You’re sending us to  _ France?” _

“Why not? You both need a new set of candidates to test for Drift compatibility, they have an entire hangar’s worth of unpiloted Jaegers, Europe is new to Kaiju attacks. It’s a fresh start for everyone, and isn’t that the best thing for some of us, Eponine?” Fantine’s smile doesn’t dim, and Grantaire knows the words were said out of kindness and not malice, but Eponine lets out a derisive snort beside him nonetheless.

“I can’t Drift with an American I’ve known my whole life, you think I can Drift with the  _ French?” _

“Come now, the Marseille Shatterdome will be mostly Americans anyway, the West Coast is getting far too overcrowded. You’re not the only ones we’re sending overseas.”

“And our lives? My parents?”

“Our friends?” Grantaire adds in, because he may not have family to worry about, but there are things he doesn’t want to leave behind either.

“Will be in contact,” Fantine reassures them. “It’s only a trial run, to see if there are any Drift compatible candidates for you outside this Shatterdome. Six months and you’ll be back here, if you so choose.”

Grantaire is silent, watching Eponine’s eyes narrow as she mulls over the offer in her head. He’s all but got his mind made up - but he won’t leave without Eponine and Gavroche, not when they’re the closest thing to family he has. He can hardly imagine packing up and shipping off to Europe, much less without Eponine in tow. Still, the idea is appealing - starting over with a new environment, in a new Shatterdome, and hopefully with a copilot and Jaeger of his own, if he’s lucky. Finally, Eponine shakes herself imperceptibly and gives a single, definite nod.

“Excellent,” says Fantine, clapping her hands together with her bright smile firmly in place. “Now then, pack your things, you leave in two days.” With that, she turns and exits the simulation chamber, leaving Grantaire and Eponine gawking at the door hissing shut behind her retreating footsteps.

-

_ “Marseille,” _ Eponine whines, a day and a half later, for the fifth or seventh time since dragging her suitcase into Grantaire’s room. He levels a flat stare at her, folding the sweater in his hands and shoving it unceremoniously into his own suitcase. Something at the bottom of the heap of clothes makes a worrying  _ crunch, _ but he just winces and pulls another shirt out of his drawers. “What do we  _ do?” _

“You speak French, Eponine. I  _ know  _ you do.”

She tosses her head, blowing a stray bit of hair out of her eyes. “Gavroche doesn’t.”

“Gavroche is  _ eleven,”  _ he replies, not looking at Eponine as he tosses the shirt into the suitcase - much more gently than before, for fear of breaking something else. “Kids don’t need language to talk to each other, and all that. Besides, the Marshal said we wouldn’t be the only Americans there. Lighten up a bit, won’t you? Or do you really not want to pilot a Jaeger after all?”

“You  _ know I do,” _ Eponine bites out at him, before falling back into a surly, stubborn silence. Grantaire heaves a sigh in her direction, more for show than anything else, and tugs open another drawer to pull clothes out of. His suitcase is small, lighter and emptier than Eponine’s - to be fair, she had to pack for herself and her brother, but even without that, Grantaire’s personal possessions are few and far-between. Most of the clothes he owns are government-issued, standard Shatterdome regulation outfits, with a few shirts and a pair of jeans for his off days. He’s fairly sure he’s supposed to return the regulation uniforms, but he has the sinking feeling he won’t settle into life at Marseille as easily as Eponine.  _ Better to be on the safe side, _ he thinks, bundling up another standard-issue sweater and chucking it into the suitcase. Eponine rolls her eyes at him. He gives her a token one-finger salute. She laughs. Somewhere outside, a bell rings. “Come on then, champ,” she says, bracing her hands on her knees and pushing herself upright. “Time to run the gauntlet.”

 

Fantine is waiting for them at the airstrip, the sharp coastal winds whipping her short hair into a halo of chocolate brown around the crown of her head. Gavroche is beside her, bouncing on the balls of his feet and hauling his own little suitcase beside him. Grantaire hasn’t seen the kid in weeks, but he’s overcome with a rushing wave of  _ fondness _ for Eponine’s little brother, a skinny little brat only half through his training, about to be packed up and carted off across a very dangerous ocean. Grantaire understands, just a little, how worried Eponine must be. Beside him, she is tense, a live wire waiting to find a puddle of water, a taut rubber band waiting to be let go.

Fantine steps closer.

_ “If you see Valjean,”  _ she shouts, over the howling wind and the roar of the jet engines behind her,  _ “Wish him well from me.” _

“Valjean?” Grantaire asks, but it is too late. Fantine is gone, giving a single hug to Gavroche and a kind smile to Eponine, and then the three of them are hustled onto the jet by nameless, faceless Shatterdome personnel.

_ It’s not much, _ Grantaire thinks as they take off, staring out the window at the shrinking concrete dome and the growing coastline beneath them.  _ But it was home. _

He wonders if Marseille could be home, too.

-

They don’t go to France.

The plane touches down at a small Shatterdome in Maine, where a short, gaudily dressed boy steps into the cabin. His suitcase is decorated with stickers and small rhinestones, and every inch of plastic not already covered is detailed with looping cursive in bright metallic gold and silver. Eponine eyes him warily but discreetly, Grantaire openly and unabashedly stares. The boy throws himself into the seat across from the two of them with a heavy  _ thump _ that is unexpectedly graceful for the carelessness of the action.

“Jehan,” he says, extending a hand. Grantaire takes it, Eponine does not. Gavroche tinkers with a miniature Jaeger he pulled out of his suitcase at the beginning of the flight.

“I’m-”

“Grantaire,” Jehan cuts in, with a wide, dazzling smile and a grip firm enough to crush fingers, if he had been trying.

“...Yes,” Grantaire says, slowly. “And Eponine, and Gavroche.” Eponine narrows her eyes at Jehan, clearly suspicious. At this, Jehan withdraws his hand, finally looking sheepish, tucking a strand of fiery hair behind his ear.

“It was on the suitcase,” he says, nodding towards the rack where their luggage is stowed, and Eponine softens slightly.  _ This could work,  _  Grantaire thinks,  _ this could be okay. _

 

They pick up two more newcomers in Florida, a bear of a man with a booming laugh and an inexplicably hot pink suitcase named Bahorel, and a thinner but more imposing redhead named Feuilly. Eponine takes to them instantly, instead of with the slow, cautious way she had come to take to Jehan, and within half an hour, they are their own small family, headed East over the Atlantic to some great unknown in Marseille.

Jehan is incompatible, Grantaire learns two hours in. Completely, inexplicably unable to Drift with anyone, with close to no potential candidates at his Shatterdome. Grantaire supposes this has less to do with skill than it does with Jehan’s eccentricity; he doubts anyone would be able to just jump right in and click with a mind like that. Everyone has their vices - Eponine is too headstrong, Jehan too individual, and Grantaire - 

_ Well, _ he thinks,  _ I’m just too weak. _

Bahorel and Feuilly, on the other hand,  _ are _ compatible, but without a spare Jaeger to their name. “Hours in the simulator can’t beat a drop,” Bahorel had said, clapping Grantaire on the back with the force of a small elephant, “And France already has a Jaeger all picked out for us, outfitted and everything.”

“I get a  _ sword,” _ Feuilly says, an equal mixture of awe and excitement in his voice. Grantaire wonders if he’ll have a sword one day, too, or if Marseille is just another dead end for him. 

The rest of the flight is passed with good-natured laughs and stories around the six of them, and when Grantaire steps off the plane in Marseille, he feels his little found family has grown by three. The air here is light, soft in a way that the West Coast had never been, and the wind is little more than a light breeze, rather than the torrent of sea spray it had been with Fantine. The Shatterdome is immense, surrounded on all sides by bright birch trees, and when the hum of the jet engines dies down, Grantaire can just make out the chirp of birdsong. The door opens, down at the end of the airstrip, and three men walk out of the Shatterdome to meet them.

The first is tall and imposing, a straightness to his spine that belies his position.  _ The Marshal, _ Grantaire realizes, and stiffens. Javert seems more machine than man, sweeping a cursory glance over the six of them before returning his gaze to the air in front of him. He looks in their direction, but not  _ at _ them - Grantaire wonders how Fantine finds him. She wouldn’t send them here without at least a good impression of the resident Marshal, but Javert seems impersonal in a way that even Fantine wouldn’t find impressive.

The second, to Javert’s right, is even taller and considerably more imposing, but with kind eyes and a small smile that are absent from Javert’s features. He introduces himself as Jean, resident Fightmaster, but his eyes flick to Javert almost imperceptibly as he does so.

“Valjean,” Javert says, still staring into nothing. “Jean Valjean.”

“Right,” Valjean says, “Jean Valjean.” The name is familiar, it strikes a chord somewhere in the recesses of Grantaire’s memory, but he brushes it away when the third man begins to speak.

He is tall, not as tall as Valjean but still considerably more so than Javert and Grantaire, and his blonde hair falls in soft waves around his angular face. He holds a clipboard in his hands, which he glances over before looking back up sharply.

“Thenardier, Eponine,” he says in a heavy accent, fixing her with his piercing gaze -  _ his eyes are so blue, _ Grantaire thinks. Eponine nods, once. “Thenardier, Gavroche.” Next to Grantaire, Gavroche gives the blonde man his trademark devil’s smile. “Jean Prouvaire.”

“Jehan,” the short man corrects, in a small voice.

“Jehan,” the man amends, with a curt nod. “Bahorel and Feuilly.” They grunt in affirmation, the sound escaping them as one, a Drift-compatible team, Jaeger pilots. This is the connection that Grantaire craves. He stares at the blonde man, studying the angles of his face, his sharp, high cheekbones, the long lashes that sweep his freckled cheeks when he blinks, the fall of his halo of golden curls, the stormy, windswept sea blue of his eyes.  _ No, _ Grantaire decides,  _ he is the connection that I crave. _ As if he had heard Grantaire’s thoughts, the blonde man’s eyes fix themselves on him, a severe gaze that has Grantaire wishing he could run, or scream, or cry -  _ anything _ but standing there losing himself in the impossible depths of those eyes. The blonde man's fingers twitch imperceptibly around the clipboard.

“Grantaire,” he finally says, in the same sharp voice that he had spoken the rest of their names. The spell is broken, Grantaire’s wits returned to him. “You can call me Enjolras. Welcome to Marseille.”

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are much appreciated, let me know what you think! and as always, find me on tumblr at [prouvvaire](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)!


End file.
